Chapter 6 - The Iron Sanctuary
The air in the utility corridor smelled of hot oil, ozone, and gunsmoke.
I kept my back pressed against the cold stone wall, holding the silver revolver in both hands, my breathing shallow and quiet. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run back to the safety of the bunker, but the faces of the six children—and the thought of Victor fighting outside—kept my feet moving forward.
Up ahead, near the main generator panel, a bright flashlight beam cut through the darkness.
"Damned Moretti security protocols," a voice muttered.
It was Thomas Vance. The distinguished, silver-haired counselor who had sat in Victor's office every Tuesday morning drinking espresso was currently unbolting the steel cover of the bunker's secondary air ventilation system, holding a small chemical canister in his gloved hand.
He wasn't just planning to turn off the oxygen. He was going to flood the bunker with toxic gas.
My blood turned to ice.
I stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, raising the heavy silver revolver with both hands, leveling the barrel directly at the center of his chest.
"Drop the canister, Thomas," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the generators like a razor blade.
Thomas froze. He slowly turned his head, his flashlight beam sweeping across the dark corridor until it blinded my eyes.
"Olivia?" Thomas blinked in genuine surprise, a smooth, condescending smile slowly spreading across his face. "Well, well. The quiet little secretary turns out to have teeth. How precious."
"I said drop it," I repeated, my finger tightening against the trigger. "Or I put a bullet through your heart."
Thomas chuckled softly, taking a slow, casual step toward me, leaning slightly on his silver cane.
"You won't shoot me, my dear," Thomas cooed smoothly, his voice filled with patronizing confidence. "You're a waitress. A caregiver. You don't have the stomach for blood. Hand over the gun, and I’ll make sure Falcone gives you a comfortable life somewhere far away from Chicago."
"You betrayed Victor," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "He trusted you for ten years!"
"Victor is a fool!" Thomas snapped, his pleasant facade cracking into a bitter, greedy sneer. "He allowed sentimentality to weaken him! First with that whore Elena, and now with you! Falcone offered me thirty percent of the Moretti shipping networks once Victor is dead. I'm not letting a little girl with a handgun ruin ten years of planning."
In a split second, Thomas swung his silver walking cane with violent force, aiming for my wrists.
CLANG!
The heavy metal cane struck my arm. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up my shoulder, and the silver revolver flew out of my hands, clattering across the concrete floor into the shadows.
"You silly little bitch," Thomas sneered, stepping forward and grabbing me by the hair, dragging me toward the generator frame. "Now you can watch through the glass as your precious little orphans choke in the dark!"
I gasped as my head was slammed against the metal panel. Pain exploded behind my eyes, but as he pinned me down, my hand brushed against something lying on the maintenance shelf beside the generator.
A heavy, sixteen-inch iron pipe wrench.
I didn't pause. I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed the heavy iron wrench, swung it backward with every ounce of strength left in my body, and slammed it directly into the side of Thomas Vance's knee.
CRACK!
Thomas let out a blood-curdling scream of agonized shock as his knee shattered. His grip on my hair loosened instantly, and he collapsed onto the concrete floor, clutching his broken leg, his pistol slipping out of his pocket.
I scrambled forward on my hands and knees, snatched his fallen pistol, turned around, and pointed it straight between his eyes.
"I told you," I panted, chest heaving, blood dripping from a small cut on my forehead, "I’m not letting anyone hurt my family."
The heavy iron door behind us crashed open.
Victor stepped into the utility corridor, his dark coat torn, blood staining his shirt collar, holding his heavy tactical firearm. He took in the scene—the shattered knee, the crying traitor on the floor, and me, standing tall with a gun pointed at his former counselor's head.
May you like
Victor stopped. A slow, dark, unbelievably proud smile spread across his scarred face.
"You missed a good fight outside, Olivia," Victor said softly, his storm-gray eyes burning with absolute adoration as he looked at me. "But I see you handled the trash in here just fine."
